


I’ll Lie Down with the Bees (and I’ll Wait for You Here)

by nickelsandcoats



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-01
Updated: 2011-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:25:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's final wish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’ll Lie Down with the Bees (and I’ll Wait for You Here)

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://thegameison-sh.livejournal.com/profile)[**thegameison_sh**](http://thegameison-sh.livejournal.com/)'s cycle three, round four challenge: Phantom Touch.

In the end, Sherlock thinks, he should have expected this to come much sooner. But John had always been such a fighter, and had been just as reluctant to retire as Sherlock. And when they settled in Sussex, Sherlock had thought there was nothing else that could threaten them, that could take his John away from him.

He was wrong.

They had had twelve years with their bees and their cottage in Sussex. John had called it their idyll, and Sherlock had agreed. But then John fell ill, and went in for tests.

Cancer.

He had borne it as well as he could, putting on a brave face for Sherlock. But there was no way to hide the lines that pain creased into John’s face, no way to disguise the sheer number of pills John took, the painkillers that at the end did little to ease his suffering.

John called him in one morning, near the end, when he was bedridden and drawn tight with pain.

“When I’m gone⎯” he started.

“John, don’t. Please.”

“When I’m gone,” John continued, as firmly as he could with the tears choking him, “cremate me and put me with your bees. That way I’ll still be with you every day.”

“John⎯”

“Will you do it?”

Sherlock could only nod.

“Good.” John tugged weakly on his hand, and Sherlock laid down carefully next to him and let John rest his head on his chest. Sherlock counted every breath John took, grateful for each one.

They drifted off to sleep, still tangled in each other as they had been for every night for the past thirty-odd years.

  


Four days later, Sherlock woke up in the morning to find that John was gone.

He shook him gently, called for him, and when he finally allowed himself to acknowledge that John was cold and still and no longer there, he placed his head on his husband’s chest and breathed in one, two, three deep breaths before he cried.

When he was finally able to pull himself away, he sat up and brushed his tears off his face. He looked down at John and carefully ran one hand through his hair and then brushed a kiss, light as a bee’s wing, across his lips.

“Wait for me, love,” he whispered. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He stood up on shaky legs and made his necessary calls.

When they came to take John away, Sherlock took off the ring he had placed on John’s hand over thirty years ago and pushed it onto his own finger. He smoothed down John’s hair one last time, and then leaned down and pressed one final, lingering kiss to his lips before he straightened and nodded at the men. He stood in the door and watched as his John left their house for the last time.

  


When John was returned to him in a small urn, Sherlock found he couldn’t let him go. Not just yet.

Weeks later, Sherlock finally took the urn off the mantel and walked slowly, carefully down the familiar path to his hives, the ones John had so loved to walk amongst as Sherlock tended the bees.

He stood in the middle of the cluster of hives and took a deep breath. He opened the urn and said, “Here you are, John. Sleep well.”

He reached in and let John’s ashes sift through his fingers, scattering them around the hives, the path, the bench where John had sat and watched him as he puttered around the hives.

When the urn was empty, Sherlock sat down heavily on the bench. The bees fluttered by him, some close enough that he could feel their wings brush against him.

He closed his eyes, squeezing out a few tears, the urn clutched to his chest. He caught a whiff of John’s familiar aftershave, felt the brush of phantom fingers on his cheek trying to wipe away his tears. He blinked his eyes open, but there was no one there. He smiled softly. John was still here with him, just as he said he would be. And now Sherlock understood why he had wanted to be with the bees⎯the brush of their wings was almost as light as John’s touch had always been. It was a way to remember him, at least until they were together again.

Sherlock walked over to the nearest hive, the bees fluttering around him, their wings a phantom touch saying _I’m here_.

He smiled.

 _Hello, John._

  



End file.
